


Unforeseen Consequences

by AxeMeAboutAxinomancy



Series: Flowers [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alcohol, Drug Use, Established Relationship, Experimentation, F/F, Light Bondage, M/M, Telepathic Bond, Telepathic Sex, Telepathy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-01-17
Updated: 2013-10-06
Packaged: 2017-11-25 20:14:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,705
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/642552
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AxeMeAboutAxinomancy/pseuds/AxeMeAboutAxinomancy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sequel to Unexpected Effects. Sherlock and John's new relationship has not gone unnoticed. Nor have their new abilities.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Kind comments and excellent questions about 'Unexpected Effects' from Pat_is_fannish and TSylvestris made it clear that this story was inevitable. If it is good, thank them, and if not, blame me. Either way, in the end I just could not resist going back into this particular little world.

Molly Hooper is always the last person to know _anything_.  
  
Well, except. Yes. That one time.  
  
And that's the trouble, isn't it. Once, just one time in Molly's whole life, the most important person in her world told her his most important secret and then she was the one who had to keep it. All by herself.  
  
It had seemed like an honour at first, a special gift, to be needed at last, to be trusted. But it really was a terrible secret, a burden. He may have known what he was asking of her, but it didn't matter, really, did it? She had the secret to keep and she kept it.  
  
She doesn't have to anymore of course, not now, but she carried that weight for two years and then once Sherlock had come back, oh, the _look_ John gave her. A look that made her flinch, not as though in anticipation of being hit, but in the absence of it.  
  
 _The one thing that could have saved me, the lifeline, you held it back and watched me drown,_ his eyes said that day.  
  
The guilt is terrible, its weight is an exchange for the no longer kept secret, and she isn't even particularly _friends_ with John. Wasn't before. Probably never will be now, and whose fault is that?  
  
The one person you can't even blame.  
  
She did what Sherlock asked of her because he asked it _of her_ , nothing more or less than that. It had been bad, watching John suffer like he did, watching Mrs Hudson mourning her surrogate son like she did. But Molly keeps her promises no matter what. That's how she was taught as a girl and she doesn't see any reason to change now.  
  
Sherlock has been back for months and months and though she only saw the two of them a handful of times at Bart's she could see for herself that John was still angry, forever-angry like some unhappy people are, and that made her sad, but at least he did not seem to blame _her_ anymore. He was polite but distant with Molly, he didn't meet her eyes, but that was okay. His eyes hurt.  
  
And the way he'd looked at Sherlock then, still admiring but - wary. Like - like a dog. A dog that's been beaten, that still wags its tail at master's voice. That hurt too.  
  
Why doesn't anyone blame Sherlock for these things? But Sherlock is like a force of nature, an 'act of God'. There's no insurance against that.  
  
And then there's the business with the serial killer that the papers called, with their usual sense of taste, 'Multiple Deaths'. A detail that wasn't on the news, but that even Molly has heard, is that Sherlock arrived on the scene, caught the man just like that, then puked his guts out all over the pavement while John stabbed the killer. "High on something, holding hands with loverboy," Donovan had said with relish, "I'm guessing Ecstasy," because Donovan knows how Molly feels about Sherlock, because _everybody_ knows that, and Donovan loves tearing Sherlock down. Behind his back. Because of course he humiliates her when she tries it to his face.  
  
Molly's seen that, and really enjoyed it. Sherlock can be cruel, but _some_ people _deserve_ cruel.  
  
John really doesn't, though.  
  
That's the only reason Molly is able to keep herself from utterly _hating_ John right now.  
  
But honestly. Someone could have told her, warned her, given a hint! Did she have to find out like that?  
  
Well. Molly always tries to be fair, too. She might have seen it for herself, she might have guessed it at the party, but the party was _ruined_ by that idiot, Brian - despite it being his _very_ last chance with her, despite being warned that there was absolutely _nothing_ for him to be jealous of, he took one look at Sherlock wearing that... that purple shirt of his... and went round the bend.  
  
Mrs Hudson _might_ have told her, but by the time Molly and Brian arrived Mrs Hudson was already halfway to completely pissed on those stupefyingly powerful rum balls. (Molly saw John discreetly move the dish out of Mrs Hudson's reach on the coffee table.)  
  
Brian never even touched the drink John was getting for him, because he'd gone up to shouting by the time John came back from the kitchen with it, and then John put it down and Molly picked it up and tossed it back herself while John and Lestrade hustled Brian, still shouting, down the stairs. It was nasty, some kind of whisky, made her cough. Sherlock played a song Molly didn't know but that made Mrs Hudson laugh and clap her sticky hands.  
  
***  
Molly has a few more drinks, different things. Wine next. More to her taste really. She sighs, looking around the room. The only times she ever comes here, to where he lives, is for the Christmas parties. Because of this she tends to think of him as living like this all the time, with the lights and things. Lights on the banister, lights at the window and in the kitchen and all around the mirror and the mantelpiece. All year round it could be like that, for all Molly knows.  
  
Yes, she's only ever here for Christmas. And it's always some complete disaster. At least Sherlock didn't have to humiliate her this time; no, Brian did that, in front of him, instead. In front of everybody she likes.  
  
Another drink. Why not?  
  
The sight of Sherlock in the antlers is enough to prompt anyone to drain their glass.  
  
Molly sways a little on her fancy shoes and then Lestrade is saying something nice but clearly steering her to sit down before she falls down. She's embarrassed to think he thought he had to. She's embarrassed to be noticed at all. "I'm fine," she insists even as he presses a glass of water into her hands.  
  
She sips a little water, to make Lestrade stop staring expectantly at her. He smiles and turns away to talk to John. Molly puts the glass down.  
  
Time jumps forward a bit.  
  
The fire is still lit, but the lights have been dimmed down. Mrs Hudson is fast asleep in the chair opposite, her head tipped back, snoring lightly. Someone, maybe Lestrade, maybe John, has put a glass of water by her too.  
  
But where is everyone, have they gone? Well, perhaps Lestrade has, but the other two live here. Where are they? Did they think Molly was asleep too? Passed out after trying to drink away that horrible scene with her horrible boyfriend? _Ex_ boyfriend?  
  
That's so embarrassing. It's awful. Molly hates it when people overdo it at parties and she really never meant to. Especially here! It's all right when it's Mrs Hudson, it's different when it's Mrs Hudson, and besides after all the complaining she'd been doing it was better for everyone when she passed out. But Molly had just been embarrassed by her latest loser boyfriend and now she's embarrassed about _that_.  
  
She eases off the stupid fancy shoes. She'd only bought them because Brian said he liked them and now he's gone anyway and her feet are aching. She gets up, stretches painfully, plants her stockinged feet flat on the floor and fights the cramps in them as quietly as possible for fear of waking up Mrs Hudson.  
  
She's going to get a headache in the morning, she can tell. Red wine, why does she keep drinking it? She wishes she liked proper drinks, sophisticated drinks with special names and maybe even their own special kind of glass. But she doesn't. Fancy things like that just don't work for Molly Hooper.  
  
What time is it? She has no idea. She usually wears a watch but of course she was all dressed up tonight. Oh, her makeup and hair, she must look a fright after falling asleep like that, and she'll need a taxi home and all.  
  
Loo. She tiptoes in her stocking feet, carrying the shoes, yawning.  
  
Oh, they're still up then, it can't be as late as she feared, she can hear them talking, arguing maybe (same thing with them really), in the room just opposite and down from her destination. That's Sherlock's room, isn't it?  
  
The closer Molly gets to the bathroom the clearer their voices are through the bedroom door left just ajar.  
  
"You can stop giving me that look." John, stern and exasperated. "It's not going to work." What are they on about now? Oh her head. The headache is coming on early.  
  
" _Johnnn_." Whinging.  
  
Molly has reached the door to the bathroom when she hears, very very clearly, "John. Seriously. I _want_ some," in an intense meaningful voice that sends a shiver through her.  
  
"No, Sherlock."  
  
"Come on. You know you want to." Oh God. He can't mean...  
  
"I said no and I mean no! We can't just do it anytime you feel like it."  
  
"Why can't we! Please? It's Christmas."  
  
This is the most embarrassing thing in the _whole world_. And since when does he care about Christmas.  
  
"Yeah, and it's four in the morning and there are people out in the living room. You don't think that would go horribly wrong?"  
  
Molly starts inching into the bathroom as John goes on, "Besides. I've been drinking. It doesn't work so well for me."  
  
Oh, now. Why has she got to know that, really now.  
  
"We haven't really tested that."  
  
"Well you can just _trust_ me. Why don't you do it by yourself if you want to so bad!" Molly closes her eyes in total horror.  
  
"It feels better with you."  
  
There is a silence. Molly's head is threatening to crack open now to let the red wine fumes out, and her eyes don't feel properly contained by her eyelids.  
  
"I know it does," and now John is the one with the intense meaningful voice and Molly didn't even know he could sound like that. Why would she? "Tomorrow - Yes, by which I mean _later_ since it's four in the morning. But there's got to be some sleep, first, Sherlock. I _mean_ it."  
  
"Oh all _right_."  
  
Finally inside the bathroom, Molly turns on the light and closes the door as quietly as possible, holding the knob turned until the door is fully against the jamb before smoothly letting go.  
  
She stares incredulously at the woman in the mirror over the sink. Her hair and makeup took very little harm since she slept sitting up, and the dress is flattering enough, so it's a sort of glamourous fancy stranger there she gets to cry with (whatever _she's_ got to cry about), as she thinks about this secret that nobody _but Donovan_ could be bothered to tell her.  
  
Can you believe it. They are lovers, the two of them are _lovers_. Maybe they have been for a long time and Molly was too much the fool to let herself see it. That's really quite possible. She's very bad at judging men. Apparently she's more than twice as bad at judging pairs of men.  
  
She's never even had a _ghost_ of a chance.  
  
After a while she blows her nose and dabs at her eyes a little and then goes carefully out of the bathroom back to the living room. All is quiet. Mrs Hudson is still there, still snoring. Molly looks around at the soft glow of the lights, the way the mirror multiplies them, and her, and she puts her shoes back on and goes downstairs and goes home.  
  
Toby sits in her lap, getting his orange and white hairs on the skirt of her nice dress, and later when he throws up a hairball in one of her shoes Molly doesn't even really mind, even though they were expensive. She was never wearing them again anyway.  
  
***  
  
John wasn't sure when Molly went home, but when he got up at his usual early hour, Mrs Hudson was still in the chair. Sherlock's chair. John shook his head a little and went into the kitchen to start some coffee. It would surely take at least a cup to pry her up out of that chair and send her back downstairs.  
  
Surprisingly enough though, when she did wake up she wasn't hung over, she was almost in a good mood. "Oh, I sleep in my recliner more often than not. Easier to get in and out of it, what with the hip." She sipped at her coffee. "I _do_ wish I could have got a picture."  
  
John glanced over his shoulder, though he could hear the shower going through the bathroom door and of course Sherlock would be in there for ages. Then he got his phone out of his pocket, pulled up the text from Lestrade marked 'Multimedia message' and handed the phone over to Mrs Hudson.  
  
"Oh my goodness," she said after a moment. "He won't like it if that one gets on the internet, will he."  
  
"No." They both sounded very serious. But they were both smiling.  
  
It was probably the silliest picture ever snapped of anyone and it mostly wasn't even because of the antlers. It was the cartoonishly manic pose and crazed-looking face with bared teeth and the blur that was the bow on the strings. _And_ it was the antlers, yeah. The angle of the picture was such that the headband was hidden from view and the antlers arched up out of his dark curls as though they really grew there.  
  
Like some mad violin-playing forest god in a posh shirt. With a hint of Dr Seuss.  
  
"Don't tell him," he begged as she finally, reluctantly handed the phone back.  
  
"Oh no," instantly conspiratorial. "I'd save it for blackmail if I were you."  
  
John gave her a shocked look that was patently fake. "Blackmail? Mrs _Hudson_."  
  
"Oh, now, you never know. Might come in useful."  
  
John shook his head, but he was smiling down at the phone, and when he looked up Mrs Hudson was beaming up at him over her coffee cup. He blushed and put the phone away.  
  
"Thanks for the party," she said as she pushed herself up to her feet and headed for the door. "Sorry I overstayed. I do hope I didn't ruin any _special_ plans," with a meaningful twinkle.  
  
He blushed a little. But just a little. The special plans were for tonight.  
  
"No, it's fine, Mrs Hudson, but next year, we really need to have a look at that rum ball recipe."  
  
***  
Special plans are special for a reason.  
  
Sherlock's plans are no more special than ever. Granted, that's pretty special though.  
  
The question, currently, is what exactly to tie John up with.  
  
Not all the way up. Just his hands should do. But though Sherlock does have handcuffs he would rather not use them. They're very uncomfortable.  
  
It's surprisingly easy to be considerate of someone else's comfort, when it is also your own comfort.  
  
John has had an interesting effect on Sherlock's imagination in many ways. Right now, for example. In the shower. He considers the evening's experiment as he lingers under the hot water. There ought to be _something_ suitable in the flat. Is there any rope, even some string might - Oh! Yes. All the presents still lying around in the living room, and the lights. A string of lights sounds appealing but would be too hot on John's bare skin and besides, there isn't a free power outlet handy to where Sherlock intends to tie John up.  
  
One needs to be practical about these things.  
  
Molly's presents this year were all wrapped in silver paper, tied with great lengths of white organza ribbon shot through with silver sparkles. No doubt in order to spite him she had pointedly taken equal trouble wrapping everyone's gift - or else possibly got someone else to do it. Mrs Hudson had collected all the ribbon from the opened presents and wrapped it into a shiny ball with the stated intent of saving it, but she will have forgotten that she left it on the mantel.  
  
The ribbon will do perfectly well. He only needs one piece really.  
  
As he stands there in the shower contemplating it, he smiles placidly down at his erection. He's still not going to do anything about it right now, but they're on much friendlier terms these days just the same.  
  
***  
It isn't actually Christmas Day yet, so the lights stay up after the party. John seems to enjoy them, at least he put them up without the slightest hint of grumbling, even the outside ones on the windows. Sherlock could tell the lights had not been out of their box nor the box out of its closet since that last Christmas when he was here.  
  
No Christmas at all while he was gone? Not even for Mrs Hudson?  
  
It seemed not. And why should he even care? There are few things more tediously brain-numbing than the annual fuss over Christmas. But Mrs Hudson sincerely loves it, and even John doesn't seem to mind it - as long as Sherlock is here.  
  
It must have been dark in here, those two Christmases without lights.  
  
They went out to eat a little while ago, at Angelo's, and there was more than enough Christmas tedium to be found there, but John did not once protest the word _date_ nor the appearance of the allegedly romantic candle nor, thrillingly, as they went to leave, the temptation of mistletoe hanging just inside the door. Sherlock walked particularly tall on the way home to the flat. Not because of the various approving noises that had followed them out, but because of the look on John's face.  
  
That was a singular and special look.  
  
Now they are home and they have waited a little while to digest - the food was excellent this evening, too, it is always good but Angelo really surpassed himself tonight - and John is glancing Sherlock's way with eyes that say, I'm ready, are you ready?  
  
They take the orchid tincture under their tongues and the belladonna drops in their eyes and turn off all but the Christmas lights. Even those seem to blaze like daylight by the time their pupils have opened up. They escape, squinting, into the cool dimness of the bedroom.  
  
 ** _Undress_** , he tells John. "Everything, socks, everything." _**I want you naked.**_  
  
 _I am happy to oblige._  
  
Sherlock sits on the edge of the bed to watch. He is grinning and giddy, heart pounding with excitement. And orchids. And the thought of that look on John's face.  
  
 ** _Off Jumper, off Trousers, off Pants and off Socks,_**  
 ** _off Button-down Shirt that's still creased from the box._**  
 ** _To the foot of the bed, to a pile on the floor,_**  
 ** _now cast away, cast away_**  
 ** _Clothes are a bore._**  
  
This does _not_ have the desired effect. John stops short and stares incredulously at him.  
  
"Oh. Did I think that out loud?"  
  
John bursts out laughing. _You do like Christmas._  
  
 _ **I like you at Christmas. Socks! PANTS! Off!**_  
  
John is still laughing as he complies, and then  at last he's naked, and Sherlock has been waiting _all day_ and most of _yesterday_.  
  
The laugh winds down when Sherlock produces the length of ribbon from his pocket.  
  
 _What's that for?_  
  
 ** _It will not be adorning anyone's penis, if that's what you're looking so worried about._**  
  
Snort. _Okay. Good. - Where will it be adorning then?_  
  
"Hands," Sherlock says aloud. John holds them out, but Sherlock shakes his head. "Sit here," at a corner by the headboard. "Stretch your legs out. Hands behind your back. Clasp your wrist if you like." John says nothing, eyes wide as Sherlock leans over him, securing John's bound hands to the corner pole of the headboard. Twice he asks John to move his fingers, making sure his circulation is unimpeded. John just nods each time. Ultimately the ribbon is secured with a quick-release knot: Sherlock can free him with a single pull, but John cannot free himself.  
  
 _What is this for?_ he asks when Sherlock is finished. _Resisting sirens?_  
  
Actually, yes. _**So you'll be unable to interfere.**_  
  
John's eyes widen at this cryptic answer, as Sherlock had rather hoped they would.  
  
 _Interfere with what?_  
  
Sherlock smiles.  
  
He reaches out and touches John on the thigh, knowing that feelings of _anticipation_ and _mischief_ and _lustful intent_ pass through with the touch, which also creates its own reaction of heat. From John he can feel _excitement_ and _trust_ and _curiosity_. The very essence of John, the way he has always been with Sherlock, for Sherlock.  
  
John flexes his left shoulder just a bit. His eyes are big and intent on Sherlock's face, which is good.  
  
Sherlock gets up from the bed.  
  
"I've immobilised your hands," he says aloud, slowly, because John reacts physically to his voice and that's exciting right now, "so that you won't be able to move from there, or touch me, or touch yourself. I want you to feel with everything _but_ your hands and your skin." _**With your mind. With me.** _    
  
He doesn't really even need to add this, but the habits of speech prevail. If only he and John could have learned this communication when they were young, children even, what amazing sort of language might they have been able to develop then.  
  
"All right." John is breathing hard already.  
  
Sherlock moves as slowly as he can bear, taking off his clothes. He is tormenting John, oh yes, and joyfully, but of course the _joyful_ part is being felt by John too. Sherlock reaches out from time to time to brush his knuckles against the tenderest nakedest part of the sole of John's right foot.  
  
The touch is to keep the connection as strong and hot as possible. Also, John is just a bit ticklish there. It makes his leg twitch, sends a visible ripple of shivers up his body, but he never complains.  
  
When he is naked, Sherlock climbs onto the bed, next to John.  
  
"Would you like to touch me?"  
  
John nods, swallowing. Behind him his hands flex involuntarily at the suggestion.  
  
 _ **Then pay attention.**_  
  
And Sherlock touches himself like his own lover. He closes his eyes and lets his fingertips wander over his face, his throat, his arms. His hands slide up and down his biceps, slide up to span his own throat.  
  
When he reaches his nipples John finally starts to squirm. Sherlock opens his eyes and gives John a smile.  
  
 _ **We're only starting, you know.** _  
  
_You're only starting. I've been keyed up all day._  
  
 _ **But so have I.**_ His fingertips circle and pinch his own nipples. _**See.** _  
  
He slides his hands down his belly, but avoids his cock, though it's hard and quivering and desperate for any touch, he slides them away to either side - and John moans raggedly, pulling hard at his bonds, his hands flexing, compelled to touch, to try to touch. His eyes are almost closed but not quite, fixed on Sherlock's hands wherever they go.  
  
Ah yes. Thinking of that. Sherlock turns away for a moment and takes the lube out of the bedside drawer.  
  
But he doesn't use it just yet. He sets it down nearby and strokes his nipples for a little longer, watching John's face... and then at last Sherlock begins to cup and fondle his cock. If _keyed up_ means _erect_ then Sherlock has definitely been that all day too. When his hand closes around the shaft and slides up, fluid drenches his fingers and the both of them gasp in unison at the same shock of pleasure.  
  
John's cock jerks a little with every touch to Sherlock's. Sherlock is leaning against his leg now to keep the emotional touch constant and they feel each other, feeling each other.  
  
 _Please come, please let us come?_  
  
 _ **Not yet. Not finished.**_  
  
 _Oh God_ , as Sherlock picks up the bottle of lube.  
  
John begins crying out continuously when Sherlock finally presses a slick finger into himself. Sherlock has positioned himself so that John can see if he wants to, and John wants to but he cannot, the sensation is too intense. So he writhes, panting, head lolling back.  
  
The second finger makes him try in all earnest to break free, to _reach_ Sherlock and _touch_ him and _taste_ him and _fuck_ him, like an animal in rut flinging itself repeatedly at the door to the cage. Sherlock drinks in this response with particular delight. John with his teeth bared. Animal John, vibrating with _lust_ and so completely at his mercy.  
  
The third finger makes them both come. As he brushes against his prostate with his knitted fingers Sherlock greedily watches John react, struggling, cursing and blaspheming, sweat sheening his body as he comes all over himself, untouched. Sherlock finally loses all control of his voice as he matches John pulse for pulse.  
  
***  
Downstairs, Mrs Hudson lies in bed with her Christmas present from Sherlock and John, a sleek newfangled little music player thing, what's it called, with nice little earphones that go right in your ear like earplugs do. Earpod? Whatever it's called, it's lovely: it's playing a random selection of her favourite big band and swing music, and she sleeps like a baby.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First let me say how sorry I am this has been taking me so long. I do know exactly how it feels to wait for a story to continue. Apart from this one, I plan to only post stories that are complete. That's what I meant to do with this one too, but I got excited and jumped the gun a bit.
> 
> Second, what is it with this series and colds? This story languished for months, even after I got my mojo back (you'd think hyper thyroid would make you write faster. Not me it doesn't. It destroys my concentration) but as soon as I've got a sore throat, bam! Flowers. I don't know.
> 
> Third, although I have an account on tumblr, I am sadly tumblr-incompetent. But I'm very happy to be emailed, should you take a notion. (Email link in my profile.) I'm really friendly, and I seriously consider requests.

"Let me up," said John.

"In a minute," said Sherlock.

_I said let me up._

**_I said in a minute._ **

John struggled, outraged.

"Maybe I should get a picture." Sherlock framed an imaginary shot with his hands.

"DON'T YOU FUCKING DARE." John pulled his knees up reflexively as though the imaginary camera were real.

Sherlock chuckled as he got up from the bed and John watched incredulously as he walked out of the bedroom.

"Sherlock." Was he going to get his phone? Was he _leaving? - Jesus please don't._

No response.

_SHERLOCK?_

**_Stop panicking. I'm only washing my hands._ **

Oh.

Christ. Something so simple. And of course he was washing his hands. But it was... _not good_ when they were like this and he didn't know where Sherlock was because he both _could not see_ and _was not free to follow_ him. John could hear the water now and he ought to have noticed it before, realised immediately.

A moist flannel landed on his belly, making him jump a little, and Sherlock was leaning down behind him, pulling the knot loose. **_Why would you think I would leave you?_**

Even as he swayed towards Sherlock's scent and body heat, there was a response to this question deep down that John clamped down on hard, and he stayed resolutely near the surface, covering pain with irritation, like deliberately confusing one's nerve endings. _Tell you what. I'll tie you up and then walk off and we'll see how you like it._

"Don't sulk."

John was doing exactly that as he shrugged off loops of shiny ribbon and then mopped up his belly with tingling hands. But out of the corner of his eye he watched Sherlock climb onto the bed and lounge on his side, leaning his dark head on his hand as he gazed at John. With his _unreasonably_ beautiful eyes.

"We might try some other experiments," John surprised himself by saying.

"Yes..."

Was that a prompt for more information, or just an unqualified Yes? It was hard to know with Sherlock. Even like this.

But the look of interest on his face could have been read by anyone. The only thing Sherlock liked better than experiments was showing off, and given the chance to do both at once, of course he was keen. He was keen as a fox.

But John had nothing specific in mind. It was just such a relief to be free to move, and his circulation restored. Sherlock had taken care in not tying him too tight, but John had struggled rather a lot. He couldn't help it.

"I might tie _you_ up. - And not walk off."

"You'll tickle me."

"No I won't."

"I don't want my hands tied."

"I wasn't thinking of your hands. I could tie your ankles to the legs of that low-backed chair out there and bend you over it."

A long pause. Sherlock licked his lips.

"You might still tickle me."

"Well since you're so concerned about it I'll just tickle you now."

He did.

Sherlock was not just ticklish, he was _supremely_ ticklish. Part and parcel of how sensitive he was, everywhere.

But he was the one who had mentioned it.

In the ensuing struggle, John received a black eye. It was not his first black eye, and it was not even the first black eye he had received accidentally while in bed. But it was the first where the giver of it licked his eye afterwards.

_You are so creepy,_ but he was smiling and stroking Sherlock's thigh at the time.

**_You are so dull._ **

The sting on both sides was equal and opposite. But also fleeting.

**_I didn't mean that._ **

_Me either._

They were touching. They could feel each other both hurt and sorry. The words would become endearments.

They tried out the chair, but didn't bother with the tying up. The chair was just the right height for John's purposes, but Sherlock's long legs had to bend a little, and watching his feet scrabbling for purchase on the rug was almost as nice as watching sweat trickle up his back.

And Sherlock loved it. John enjoyed his side of it, oh God yes, fucking him was a sinful kind of heaven, but feeling how Sherlock _revelled_ in being held down was a sweet shock that egged John on to do it a bit more roughly than he would otherwise have done. He even spanked him once, hard, but though it made Sherlock actually quiver all over under him, the noise of it was incredibly loud, gunshot sharp, and made John self conscious.

Self consciousness went out the window, of course, in the end. The possibility of being overheard was infinitely less important than the glory everlasting of Sherlock clenching and throbbing around him, moaning into the chair cushion, and John practically shouted as he gripped Sherlock's hips and came inside.

Afterwards Sherlock complained that he could still smell Molly's perfume, that it was all over the chair and now all over him, and a long shower ensued.

Two days later, Mycroft came to visit, painfully early in the morning. John was barely up. Sherlock had not slept: they hadn't been at the flowers last night, and Sherlock had apparently been up and at the computer - his own, miraculously. He was in pyjamas and dressing gown, though. John was freshly washed and dressed, but he resented having to face Mycroft without even a cup of coffee first.

Mycroft was, as ever, immaculate and smirkingly calm.

"Good morning, little brother. Good morning, John. Oh dear, I hope you two haven't been - fighting."

John gritted his teeth. Not that he wanted to hear Mycroft _say_ the word 'fucking', but he hadn't had to, had he. If it hadn't been the black eye, it would have been something else. You couldn't expect anything like that to get past Mycroft, especially not public displays of affection, like the other night at Angelo's. John was still a bit embarrassed about that. But also... just a bit... Smug. There was no doubt it had been seen on CCTV. But probably, Mycroft could read it on them now in a thousand little things.

"None of your business, Mycroft," Sherlock snapped, on cue. "Have you come to collect your Christmas present? I didn't get you one."

John happened to know that this was not true. "I'm making coffee, Mycroft, will you have one," fully expecting a No, but Mycroft said affably, "Yes, thank you, John." And sat down on the sofa like he was planning to stay for the day.

Sherlock and John traded a glance, which was more a case of John absorbing a glare. He could not hear the thoughts, but he could guess them: _Oh well done, John._

Well, he did need coffee. He went into the kitchen and started it.

***

Sherlock has been expecting Mycroft. Pity he hadn't come yesterday. The effects of the preparation have been lasting longer. But not this much longer. They'll do it again tonight, if Sherlock has anything to say about it, and he certainly has. He's actually looking forward to _dinner_ already, because it's become the established start of the process.

While it would be possibly illuminating to be able to hear Mycroft's thoughts, Sherlock feels an instinctive recoil from this idea that is a little surprising. Neither of them has any qualms about spying. If you want to see something, you have to look. If you want to hear you listen. But he doesn't really _want_ his thinking to touch Mycroft's thinking. Especially not with John here.

Sherlock does not want to think about Mycroft thinking about John. Or Lestrade. Or anyone really.

So, instead, he retrieves his present for Mycroft from where it sits on the mantel. It's not very large, it's obviously a book, and it was wrapped very nicely at the shop, though Sherlock refused ribbon. "But sir, I've got this lovely - " "I said he doesn't deserve ribbon."

Thrusting it brusquely into his brother's hands, Sherlock stalks away to look out the window.

"You said you didn't get me a present," says Mycroft, smirking, and no doubt braced for another cookbook or else a history of cakes.

"Of course he did," remarks John from the kitchen, and Sherlock can't tell whether he means of course he said that, or of course he got Mycroft a present.

He always gets Mycroft a present. It just usually isn't a very nice one.

This year it is, though.

Mycroft unwraps the gift and looks at the book. The gilt title flashes as he turns it to look. It is not a cookbook.

The Poetry of the Anti-Jacobin, Wright, 1801.

Then he opens it, and sees that it's illustrated. And his eyebrows go up.

He _loses control of his face_ such that his _eyebrows go up._

Yes!

John is watching with a little frown. He doesn't know what the book is, and he certainly doesn't know how much it cost. But it was worth it, a thousand pounds per eyebrow.

After a moment Mycroft says, "I mentioned this once, when you were seven years old."

Sherlock shrugs. Well, yes. It wasn't random.

"And you didn't delete it."

"I can delete it _now_."

John's face has changed. It's gone from _What are you up to, Sherlock, so help me,_ to more of an _Are you actually being nice or am I missing something_ face.

Sherlock lifts his chin.

John's face changes again. Little smile. Eyes alight. _Pride_. Nonverbal form of praise, all for Sherlock. Sherlock could warm himself at that smile like a fire. He could cup it with his hands and lean into it and breathe it hotter.

"Thank you, Sherlock," Mycroft says, distractingly, forcing the moment to pass. Stupid, stupid Mycroft.

But when Sherlock swivels towards him, mouth open to snap, he finds Mycroft not looking at him or John in enjoyment of his interruption (he really does do that sometimes) but looking down at the book in his hands with his own changed face.

Either he is really not trying to control himself at all, or Sherlock is getting better at reading faces. Mycroft looks... both sad and happy. But only for an instant, because he feels Sherlock looking at him and composes himself at once.

"It's a very thoughtful gift. I will enjoy it."

"Oh, whatever," he snaps, suddenly furious with embarrassment, that soft look on stupid Mycroft's stupid face, and his own stupid seven year old self solemnly committing to memory, that day, one of the few things Mycroft ever actually said aloud that he wanted.

John touches his arm. "Try 'you're welcome'," he says softly. He's holding a cup of coffee, which he sets down in front of Mycroft. Where is _Sherlock's_ coffee?

"You're _welcome_ Mycroft. And I see you haven't got _me_ anything."

Mycroft is smiling now, in his usual reptilian way, probably as relieved as Sherlock to have the status quo resumed. "I have, actually, though nothing so thoughtful as yours." He sips at his coffee before going on. Wasting time.

John hands Sherlock a mug. It's John's own favourite one, the RAMC one he's had for years. Sherlock learned early on that this is one of the very few kitchen items that is never ever to be used in experiments. When John is watching.

It's got just the right amount of sugar in it.

Mycroft reaches into his jacket pocket and draws out a folded sheaf of papers. Sherlock understands at once, but John, of course, does not.

"Inheritance," Sherlock says shortly. "All sorted out now? Well, thanks."

Mycroft inclines his head. "Your return from the dead was something of a creative legal challenge, in many ways. Most stimulating."

"Oh, get stuffed, Mycroft. You wouldn't know _stimulating_ if it stimulated you manually."

This should have made John laugh! Or possibly blush. But John is distracted.

"What do you mean, inheritance?" says John. "What about - " And his lips start to form the M of 'Mummy' but he corrects himself to, "your mother?"

There is a short silence.

"Our mother passed away two years ago," says Mycroft. "While Sherlock was - away."

"Oh," says John, weakly. And looks at Sherlock.

Why is he looking at Sherlock like that?

Mycroft stays long enough to finish his coffee and when he finally, finally pries himself off of their sofa to leave them alone at last, _still_ he lingers.

"Your methods are attracting attention," he says mildly. "Serial killers are sensational, but so are those who catch them. People wonder how you did it."

Any allusion to that man makes Sherlock feel a clench of nausea. He grits his teeth against it, glances at John, but John is sitting down now, face troubled, eyes not meeting his.

  
"Be careful, little brother," says Mycroft. "Merry Christmas, John."


	3. Chapter 3

Mycroft Holmes got into his car and sat looking at the book his brother gave him for Christmas, turning it over in his hands. The driver already knew his next destination, and Mycroft's assistant typically did not start her duties till considerably later in the morning. He was alone with his thoughts for the next twelve to fourteen minutes, depending on the traffic.

It was in excellent condition. Brown morocco, finely bound, with gilt title and decorations - full of humorous verse mocking Jacobin radicalism, beautifully illustrated with portraits and caricatures.

Sherlock had claimed on more than one occasion to have deleted all memories of his childhood as irrelevant. Mycroft had had no reason to doubt him. Sherlock's behaviour towards him as an adult certainly suggested that Sherlock really had no memory at all that they were ever friends.

But they were, once. And until this morning, Mycroft had honestly thought he was the only one who remembered that.

Mycroft remembered everything, of course. Not for him the path of scattershot deletions, a disgraceful solution to the problem of storage, acting as though the brain really were that analogous to a computer. Though admittedly his solution was not so far afield - it was more realistic. Organic. Mycroft's rarely-used memories were _compressed_ , tucked inside each other with beautiful and ruthless efficiency. Mycroft had a Mind Library where Sherlock had a Mind Palace.

Mycroft's Mind Library really was quite palatial, though.

Deletion was damaging to the rational powers, worse in its way than a drug habit. Mycroft had always had enough to worry about with Sherlock's curiosity. But deletion was final, as far as he was able to tell - and he had tested Sherlock on this of course - and one couldn't know what one had deleted once it was done. Deliberate ignorance - appalling.

So Mycroft had never tried to delete anything, even the things that most warranted it, even the worst times. He compressed those along with everything else not of immediate use, and accessed it at need, or simply at will, like now.

_...Sherlock is seven. Mycroft is thirteen, almost fourteen - they are in that little mathematical cusp where Sherlock having had his birthday and Mycroft's being later in the year makes Mycroft temporarily only six years older rather than seven years._

_Sherlock is thrilled by this. He may as well have discovered time travel, or a place where he could jump back and forth over the International Date Line - without falling into the ocean._

_They are at the house of Mummy's aunt, who Literally Cannot Abide The Sight Or Sound of Children, and they are in her library, where they were left since arriving this morning. Mycroft is home from school on summer holidays. Sherlock has a black eye again._

_Mycroft has had his own darkest moments already at school and wants nothing more than to be back with his first and only friend, sharer of his secret language, but he's reminded every time he looks at Sherlock's little face that he's never been able to protect his little brother, that nobody can, though he needs it so much._

_(When he asked Sherlock who did it, Sherlock told him not to be an imbecile. And rude as this was, he was perfectly right. Who else? What was the point of making him say it?)_

_Sherlock is bored and they are both hungry. Mycroft is trying to distract himself from both of these things by looking at books chosen randomly off the shelves. And he succeeds for a while, finds something he rather likes. Political, but witty. So much more interesting than assigned books, even the advanced ones. Layers of insinuated meaning, delivered with a superior sort of smile. Letting others do the work of guessing how much one knows. That's how power ought to be._

_"I wish we had this one at home," he says regretfully when it's time to go and he has to put it down. Sherlock casts it a glance and then says, "Race you to the car," and takes off before hearing any agreement or protest. Mycroft hates running, but he follows after Sherlock. He can at least try to protect him while he's home. Tomorrow maybe they'll..._

Mycroft withdrew from the place in his memory and allowed it to compress again. The mental image of Sherlock glancing at the spine of the book remained with him. That serious little face, angelic but for the sullied eye. Dark curls in disarray. Hyperactive seven year old caught in a freeze frame like a hummingbird in flight, wings just a blur.

That child, of that moment, was the Sherlock who just gave Mycroft this present. He'd been waiting all these years. And Mycroft hadn't known he even still existed.

You could be wrong, sometimes. Sometimes it was good, being wrong.

Sherlock's new project, for all its _severely worrying_ and problematic aspects, did not seem as sinister as it had, in light of this. If it caused this much improvement -

But one thing was certain. Mycroft was never going to go within ten miles of either of them while they were on one of their botanical sprees. No one, _no one_ was going to be allowed to listen in on _Mycroft's_ thoughts.

Ever.

There was, in fact, protocol for dealing with telepaths. You followed it, when you knew things. If you knew enough to know there _was_ such a protocol, then you already knew things.

Things you really wouldn't like telepaths to know.

For example, generally, the sorts of precautions there were for circumventing them; and second, in this particular case, the fact that Mycroft had quietly taken control of the world supply of a certain species of orchid. It came from one small area in Central America. But it couldn't be found there any more.

***

"I don't understand," said Sherlock. "You never even met her. Why - "

"It's just - She's - She was your mother."

"That's been established," Sherlock said levelly.

John sighed. Goddamn Mycroft. It had seemed like a benevolent visit, in fact John had felt right proud of Sherlock for a moment there, because it had been clear that Sherlock had really made an effort, clearly well received, and it had been a gold star moment all round.

But then. Mother dead. Two years ago??

And then - _People wonder how you did it. - Be careful._

How much did Mycroft know? Could he possibly - But no one could even guess such a - but this was _Mycroft_ -

"Are you angry with me?"

This knocked John's train of thought, already lurching, clean off its track. "What?"

"Are you _angry_. I can't always tell when you are. Not telling you she died, that was - not good?"

"Uh," said John, scrabbling for a line of sense in his own distracted mind. "I - No, Sherlock, no I'm not angry. I'm not. It just - It just seemed. I don't know."

"Creepy?"

"No! It seemed - Sad. She died while you were - Away. You might have been able to see her before - "

"I had no intention of doing that. Anyway Mycroft got word to me at the time."

John clenched his teeth. He would have given anything, anything at all to _get word to_ Sherlock _at the time._

"Don't you feel anything about it?"

"Oh yes," said Sherlock. "Relieved. I hated her."

His face was quite blank as he said this, and it was this more than the words - or the calm voice speaking them - which chilled John most. He was used to being able to read, to _feel_ so much now, and suddenly he felt completely shut out.

Sherlock turned away, picking up the papers Mycroft had left behind.

"And you should feel relieved, too, because thanks to this, I can now _easily_ pay you back the £2000 I took out for that book."

"WHAT," and it was as though a reset button had been pressed.

When he actually looked at the paperwork and saw _how_ easily Sherlock could repay it, he got very quiet.

Well. Sherlock might have grown up on a fancy estate, but John didn't. Money like that - Sherlock could gad about all his livelong life wearing silk shirts and shooting walls and flying to Minsk and blowing things up and handing out rare books and God knew what all, and never notice the dent in his account.

"Nothing's going to change," said Sherlock, "except you might possibly stop fussing at me about money. It's obviously irrelevant."

John made a derisive noise at that, but didn't say anything else.

***

Mrs Hudson has been busy for days, with all of the cooking of things and visiting of people and the constant washing up. So when she goes up to visit the boys and bring them a bit of cake, she is unprepared for the sight of John with a black eye, and the sight of it makes her blood run _cold_.

" _Sherlock_ ," she rounds on him, and he raises his eyebrows as cool as you please, as though he doesn't know what he's done, as though it isn't written there on poor John's face.

"Mrs Hudson?"

"Sherlock Holmes, I thought better of you, I really did." She can hear tears quavering in her voice and she hates them, she wants only to be angry, righteous protective angry, not confused and conflicted!

They stare at her. Then John glances towards the mirror.

Sherlock says, "I didn't mean to." Sullen. Childish. No longer meeting her eye.

"Oh, nobody _means_ to!" She feels light headed, heart pounding. She knows he can be cruel, she's seen it. She isn't stupid! But she thought he was only cruel to _bad_ people. Never to _John_. Never like this.

"Wait, wait," says John. "Seriously? This - ? Sweet Jesus."

Sherlock stands back, looking everywhere but at her. That's a guilty face if you ever saw one, and she has.

John comes to Mrs Hudson and takes her gently by the shoulders. "Mrs Hudson." Calmly, looking her in the eyes, "You _do_ know that I can break him in half. Don't you? This was an accident. Truly."

"A sex accident," says Sherlock, sulkily, and John turns red and tries very hard to fight down a little smile. But he doesn't contradict him.

They're telling the truth.

They're telling the truth, and she accused Sherlock for nothing, and now he won't meet her eye.

She apologises many times. John keeps trying to stop her, but Sherlock doesn't say anything.

***

Once she's gone, ushered out by John making the most soothing noises in his repertoire of soothing noises, Sherlock sits down on the sofa and looks up at John.

John's face is hard to read, but Sherlock isn't even trying to read it right now. Sherlock knows more about Mrs Hudson's late husband than John shall ever hear. For at least a moment, more than a moment, she saw him and Sherlock as the same. She did say _I thought better of you,_ but 'thought' is in the past tense.

"Are you all right?"

"If you did break me in half," Sherlock says, "each half would regenerate like earthworms to be with you." He pauses, tilts his head to one side. "You could have two of me. For sexual purposes. If you got very bored, you might have four."

"I think one is exactly enough for me," says John. "Are you _sure_ you're all right? You looked - She didn't mean it, Sherlock. She saw this," gesturing at his eye, "and just - reacted. You know what her husband was like. You don't have to go to war to have bad things happen that you can't forget."

Sherlock does know that, as a matter of fact.

John puts a hand on his shoulder, looks earnestly into his face. Sherlock pulls him by the arm to sit down beside him.

Then he slides down to lie with his head in John's lap. John strokes his hair.

After a while, Sherlock guides John's other hand towards his face. And sucks John's thumb into his mouth. Not teasingly, like a shadow of fellatio, but with contentment, like a kid sucking his own thumb, only better. John. Salty.

John laughs a little. "Too cute."

Sherlock nips at the pad of John's thumb before mumbling, "I am not cute. I'm just tasting you for salt content. I'm creepy."

"Actually, I love how creepy you are."

"Well. Love how dull you aren't."

It is certainly damning with faint praise, there, but John seems so pleased.


	4. Chapter 4

Mrs Hudson feels terrible, just terrible. And she can't talk to anyone about it.

The only person who understands is the one who is hurt now and he can't look her in the eye. She did that!

I couldn't help it, she wants to say. I didn't mean it. You know how Frank was, you can surely -

Well, but Sherlock deletes things doesn't he? Maybe he doesn't remember about all that anymore.

Could that be possible? Could Sherlock deliberately forget something so important as that? He still remembered the fact of Frank's execution - he told it to John, who has mentioned it since - but did he remember it after that? Maybe once he passed it on to John he deleted it.

If only she knew how to do that, she would be so glad to do it herself.

Not about everything. Not about the fact of Frank's existence, that would be too confusing. Then there would be parts of her life that did not make sense, moves that she would not understand the reasoning behind. That seems mad to Emma, to deliberately rob oneself of all one's history, when time and age and illness seem so desperate to steal it from you all on their own. Just wait, she would like to say to Sherlock, just wait and nature will do it for you, and be as cruel as you ever could, as Frank ever could.

But she does wish she could forget the times she could have gone and chose not to. She wishes she could dignify the blank spaces in her memory that he had just been even worse than usual and she had blanked it out somehow. But it was her own staying and explaining and forgiving, her own little laugh that made her feel like she sounded that everything was okay, that she honestly wishes she could throw in the bin and never think of again as long as she lives.

She moves fitfully around in her kitchen, trying to find something that needs doing, but every surface is pristine and scrubbed to within a whisper of its existence. Unlike Jane Turner's kitchen, there is not a half inch of dust covering a lot of ugly owls. But that means there is nothing to do, because cleaning something already this clean is the act of a crazy person.

She could go and talk to Jane, but she can't say what she needs to say, and she can't stand to hear Jane recycle the same old subjects again this soon after the last time.

She wishes that the tenant downstairs hadn't been one of those bad people trying to kill Sherlock. She had really looked forward to some sympathetic feminine company - someone who might even look forward to seeing Emma, to coming upstairs out of the (let's face it) cold and damp and moldy basement to sit here in her nice kitchen and gossip over a cuppa. No, that had turned out to be more of the secret agenty- criminal syndicatey - underworldy things that she really had believed they might be done with now that the boys were settling down.

At least that's going all right. Not that Emma was a big help today. Accusing. Oh, she feels terrible.

***

She used to think she knew all about pain.

She knows better now.

Pain, as deliberately applied to someone else, has always been Irene's bread, and sweetly rough talk her butter.

The thought of bread and butter, or any sort of food, fills her mouth with saliva and makes her want to retch.

Long, sad story short: her plan went both right and wrong. She saved Kate, at least she did that, but in the process...

He was supposed to shoot her, yes. Him. Sherlock. He understood at once when she handed him her gun. The elegant little Walther PPK had looked tiny in his long-fingered hand.

He was _supposed_ to shoot her, the shoulder would do, barely three feet away, and he knew where to aim, she _knew_ he did; and she did not move, she stood still and waited for the shot to knock her down. Like her clients used to stand still and wait for her crop. Or her lash. Or the back of her hand.

She even knew, because of this, not to tense up - to relax as much as possible in the moment before he fired.

So it shouldn't have gone wrong. And it didn't. It went according to plan: The bullet did not kill her.

But it tried.

It was bad luck, the doctors said. Small caliber bullet. Caroming off bone. Going on a little joyride. Lodging in an inconvenient little corner of her spine that happened to be in its path.

Inconvenient to remove. That is to say, inconvenient for them. For Irene, it is excruciating.

Pain is not always the same. It flashes; it grinds. It simmers.

Kate's face has changed.

Kate, who was constant through everything, even through the disappearances and her own rough treatment at the hands of Moriarty's leftovers and even - Irene's ill-judged, aberrant fascination with that man that brought all their best plans down. And Kate is here now, but her being here is _not_ constant, not now her face has changed.

Always, there has been admiration. Devotion. Submission.

Now, Irene sees pity.

She insists on continuing her old duties though they're pointless now. Irene can't bear to be made up, but her nails still look perfect. Perfect glossy nails on hands that do nothing but form claws against the sheets, and not in a good way.

Kate's doing them now. Slowly. Methodically. Removing the polish she applied last week, massaging Irene's hands with lotion and soaking each briefly to soften the cuticles. She's brought a bowl from home for this. Irene recognises it.

She ought to. It's the exquisite white porcelain bowl that used to sit on its own special little shelf in the library. Northern Song dynasty, a thousand years old. It cost someone millions. And Irene knew what he liked.

She glances up in time to see Kate glancing away: she noticed Irene noticing. A little smile plays about those sweet, quirky lips. They used to have a game… it's been years since they played it. Mistress finds her maid being careless with priceless antiques, or trying on jewelry, or some other such offense, and devises creative punishment. It was a way to really enjoy the luxuries they were suddenly rolling in. Like fingering Kate till she came spurting all over the silk sheets, and then ecstatically punishing her for soiling them. Riding her wet flesh while her face was pressed down into her mess by Irene's extended foot. _Wicked girl! See what you've done!_

But Irene is past these games now, and she says nothing. She looks away, staring at nothing on the wall, and resists the meditative drift of having her cuticles attended to, the delicate nip and tug of the special little scissors. Kate is extremely good at it, at all the little ways of making her beautiful, and Irene had always enjoyed watching her work, watching her face as she worked. Such simple little tasks taken separately, nothing she could not do for herself, but taken all together and performed with selfless devotion, the essence of service.

By the time Irene's attention returns to the present, Kate is starting the second coat of colour. Dark, shiny -

Oh.

Azature nail polish with black diamonds. (From an actress so desperate for the favours of The Woman that she'd sent this extravagant gift to introduce herself. Irene had laughed when she found out what the actress liked. So ordinary. So banal. A hundred and fifty thousand pounds for something anyone could have done. "But what goes with this?" Kate had wondered, holding the little bottle up to the light. "It'd go very nicely on my _corpse,"_ Irene had said.) Deep, sharply sparkling, a rival to any jewelry, ruthlessly expensive. Easily a thousand pounds a finger, the way Kate slathers it on. (In better days Irene might have punished her for being wasteful, but only in ways that didn't use her hands, until her nails were completely dry. Then there would most assuredly have been spanking, and oh how she could have admired her beautiful hands as she did it.)

 _This_ is not a game. Nor is it pity. This is a message. A signal.

Battle dress. _Real_ battle dress. She is effectively naked. But she still has shining dark claws.

Irene experiences a rush of endorphins at this hint of danger. For whom would she need this here, now? She knows Kate can feel the change through her fingers, but she gives no outward sign. They are being watched, of course, and listened to. At all times. Big brother really is always watching.

And Kate is telling her, silently, to expect big brother to visit. (Who else?)

"Shiny," says Irene, because surely it seems natural that she should say something. "Nice," she adds, praising her not for the manicure, which is part of her contract, but for the warning.

Kate's smile seems to reach through the haze of pain for the first time.

***

John looked at Sherlock as he moved distractedly around the flat, and he worried. He watched the languid distraction on his face and wondered if it was an act.

He could tell, he could have found out for himself if they were to do the flowers again, but they hadn't done them this time when they planned to. Sherlock had been too upset, too unsettled, and when John had gently suggested that it could wait, Sherlock had agreed so quickly that it was obvious he was relieved.

But it wasn't that he didn't want to be touched. He seemed to want that more than ever, as a matter of fact. He followed John around in a loose orbit, even if he didn't seem to be looking at him. More than once John remembered something suddenly, reversed direction and bumped into Sherlock wandering behind him. Sherlock hardly noticed these collisions. John got a little more worried with each one, like the score mounting in a pinball machine.

Eventually he thought he had better go down to see Mrs Hudson.

She looked awful. John could see at once from her manner that she had been blaming herself, and then he blamed himself for her blaming herself and everyone felt just terrible. He hugged her, made her sit down at her kitchen table and made the tea himself.

"Is he angry?" she said softly, wrapping her fingers around her mug, her lip wobbling. "If he's angry he has every right, I should never, never have said, going after him like that, and John I'm sorry I insulted _you,_ too, saying it." She shook her head, her eyes glittering with tears, which spilled over. John fetched tissues.

"I don't think he is angry, he hasn't said anything about it."

"That's not as reassuring as you seem to think it sounds," said Mrs Hudson.

John could see her point, come to that.

"He seems distracted," he said, and his eyes were down on his own mug because he could feel her looking at his face and he was blushing now, "actually he seems like a little kid sometimes. Clingy. But not always interested - " Oh God was he talking about his sex life with Mrs Hudson. What the hell was happening to his brain, his brain was being melted into goo by the fucking flowers.

"I need him to talk to me," she said softly, and John looked up, grateful for the change of subject, and wondering what she meant. "If I could only get him to sit down with me, here, like we are now, and have a little talk. I don't feel like I can talk to him up there. I can't chase him down."

And John saw a little wincing frown cross her face and he knew in that moment, he didn't guess, he _knew_ that she was thinking about her hip and how hard it was to climb the stairs even on a good day and... how there haven't been many good days for it lately and the way _he_ flits around, she would never get a word in and oh dear he looks funny all of a sudden is he all right -?

"John?"

John snapped out of it and sat blinking at her. Hard on the heels of his thoughts about the flowers melting his brain… What was that?

Because that had sounded like Mrs Hudson's thoughts.

And they hadn't taken the flowers in days.

"I'm sorry," he said."I'll talk to him. I'll try." He got up blindly, stumbling into the kitchen chair and making it scrape loudly on the floor. Her worried gaze followed him up and over to the door.

As he went up the stairs he remembered Sherlock saying he could hear John thinking - when they weren't doing the flowers then, either. Ah, but they had been, just the night before, and surely some residual effects -

But it had happened more than once, hadn't it? Hadn't Sherlock done or said something once before when their landlady was in pain? John couldn't nail the memory down. And when he entered the flat again, it was driven from his mind.

Sherlock had him up against the back of the door before he even had it properly shut. His sudden and immediate and very physical presence blotted out everything, like an eclipse. John gasped as teeth scored the side of his neck, his hands naturally finding Sherlock's hip bones, and he was just about to slide his hands to get those trousers open when Sherlock breathed into his ear,

 _"I found a microphone."_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Forgive me for taking so long with this story. I have never forgotten it, but the longer it languished the guiltier I felt about it and my mind's eye would rove to something else. I haven't exactly been having writer's block, but I haven't exactly had writer's _flow_ lately, either. - When I can't get anything written, I work on podfics. (See [here](http://axinomancy.livejournal.com/20064.html) if you'd like to know what podfics I'm working on and what's next.)


End file.
